A Case of Identity
by MoonBard
Summary: A new tenant at 221C Baker Street and a mysterious murder at a shopping centre keep Sherlock and John in the game.
1. Chapter 1

It was a rainy Monday afternoon when John Watson returned to his flat at 221B Baker Street, London. On the advice of his therapist, he had been on a five-day holiday to the coast to revitalize himself and to take a break from his very trying roommate, Sherlock Holmes. In some respects the break had allowed him the perspective of distance and provided a welcome change of scenery. On the other hand, John had felt so lonely during those five days, he found to his surprise that he actually missed Sherlock. He even missed his friend's dark moods and tirades, simply because they were more interesting and entertaining than being lonely and staring at the wall.

Regardless of Sherlock's apparent inability to cultivate relationships, John regarded the aloof consulting detective as his friend. In moments of high danger and adrenaline, Sherlock had shown undeniable care for John's safety and for the well-being of their land lady, Mrs. Hudson. John knew that Sherlock's unsociable behavior covered a deep reservoir of hidden or repressed emotion. Since John himself often suffered from bouts of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder as a result of his stint in the Afghanistan war, he understood the subtleties of mental conditions. As a doctor, he was possessed of a high degree of compassion. He was the ideal flat mate for Sherlock, who returned the sentiment, even if he never said it in so many words.

As he approached the front door, he felt a surge of warmth that he hadn't known since childhood. It was the warmth of coming home. He smiled to himself as he mounted the steps and unlocked the outer door. Once inside, he noticed that the door opposite his, 221C, was slightly ajar. He could hear light strains of classical music and could hear someone moving about. Mrs. Hudson hadn't mentioned a new tenant before he'd left, and he was both curious about it and oddly guarded. He viewed himself Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson as a tight knit trio, their friendship reinforced by their shared experiences with Sherlock's detective cases.

His suspicion was quickly dispelled when a beautiful woman opened the door to the hallway, looking surprised when she saw John standing there staring at her door.

"Oh, hello," she said smiling.

John smiled back, unable to resist the charm of a beautiful woman.

"Hello," he answered. "I'm John Watson. I live in 221B."

"Nice to meet you, John," she said. "Mrs. Hudson has told me all about you and Sherlock. I've spotted him once or twice, but we haven't spoken yet. I'm Emma Brown."

"American?" asked John, noting her accent.

"Yes," she answered as if uncertain of her reception.

Emma was a pretty woman in her 30's. She had thick dark hair and dark emotive eyes. Her smile was warm and her expression gentle, but there was no mistaking a sense of strength and intelligence in her demeanor. John thought he was becoming very good at reading people, perhaps even picking up some of Sherlock's techniques. She was quite a bit taller than John, a fact which didn't bother him as he was so used to it by now, for John was quite short in stature.

Sherlock, who had apparently heard voices in the hall, pulled open the door to their flat and stuck his head out. He was in a dressing gown with no shoes on and disheveled hair, as if he'd just gotten out of bed.

"You're home," he said to John flatly, ignoring Emma.

"Yes," said John making a disapproving face at his friend. "Sherlock, have you met our new neighbor?"

"No," he replied his eyes flitting to Emma assessing her head to toe in one glance.

"This is Emma," introduced John. Sherlock executed a brief smile that was more like a grimace and was quickly replaced with a stoic expression.

"Hello," said Emma. She knew from Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock exhibited Asperger-like symptoms, so she didn't allow herself to be offended by his stand-offishness. Sherlock snapped the door shut. John pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head in disbelief, but Emma only smiled understandingly.

"Mrs. Hudson told me all about him," she said reassuringly.

John ventured a look at her. She was definitely worth 'chatting up' if only she weren't driven away by his flat mate's behavior.

"If there's anything we can help you with, just let us know. Knock anytime," he offered.

"Thank you," she said, awarding him a dazzling smile. She locked her own door and made her way out to the busy London street, while John proceeded into his own flat, his suitcase in tow.

"Sherlock..." John began in an admonishing tone as he closed the door behind him.

"Oh goody, my conscience has returned," said Sherlock drolly while throwing himself onto the sofa so hard, it actually moved backwards several inches.

"For God's sake can't you at least be civil?" chided John.

"I trust you had a restful holiday," replied Sherlock, ignoring his friend's admonishment.

John sighed. "Yes. Yes. It was...restful." He flopped his suitcase on the table, unzipped it and began rooting around in it.

"Boring, you mean," interrupted Sherlock.

"Well..." began John, but Sherlock sat bolt upright and stared hard at his friend with that dreadful piercing stare. John knew what was coming.

"You're not tan so you obviously didn't spend much time outside on the beach even though the weather was good; Given the fact that some of your outfits are unworn I deduce you spent much of your time in the hotel watching the telly. The dark circles under your eyes suggest you didn't rest well, probably the result of your frugalness, meaning you selected a cheap room which was probably near an ice machine so foot traffic kept you awake late at night. You've gained three pounds which indicates that you spent the whole time eating and without any dining companion or you would have talked more and ate less. Am I right?" He awaited his friend's reaction expectantly, totally unaware that he might be offending him.

John felt all the benefits of his holiday perspective slipping away.

"You are a piece of work, Sherlock," he said angrily. "Do you know that?"

Sherlock simply blinked at him innocently and cocked his head to the side as if trying to figure out why John had reacted angrily.

"Here, I brought you a gift," said John, who had found the small package at the bottom of his case and threw it at Sherlock's head, clearly annoyed.

Sherlock caught the small white bag with lightening fast reflexes. John was always amazed at his friend's agility given his apparent lack of activity. The only time Sherlock displayed any energy at all was when he was hot on a case, and then he was tireless and almost wired like a drug addict.

"Oh," he said opening the small bag. He pulled out a flat silver case about the size of a thumbnail drive but a little wider.

"What's this?" he asked turning it over looking for a mechanism to open it. John took it and slid the side panel with his thumb. A retractable magnifying glass emerged, and when a tiny button was pushed an LED light came on. Sherlock's eyebrows raised up and he looked at John confused. John looked at him expectantly.

"...Thank you," he said at last, with effort. Sometimes John thought he did things like this on purpose to be annoying, but at other times, he could see genuine confusion on the man's face and actually felt sorry for him for being so socially awkward. John took a deep breath, smiled weakly and said a little sarcastically, "It's good to be home."


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning John awoke to find Sherlock at the window engrossed in something outside. He wandered over and looked down at the busy London street. Below them was Emma Brown exiting a cab. She was dressed in fashionable clothes that could be described as classic and her hair and makeup were impeccable. She gracefully climbed up the stairs and they heard her opening the main door below. While John admired her Sherlock looked somewhat perplexed. John did a double take at his friend's expression.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing," Sherlock answered tersely. "Just a bit early to be coming _home_ from somewhere. What did you find out about her?" he asked. John shook his head.

"If you want to get to know her better why don't we bring over a bottle of wine and some cheese as a house warming gift?"

Sherlock stiffened.

"Why would we do that?" he asked.

"It's what people **_do_**, Sherlock," said John exasperated.

"It's not what **_I_** do," quipped his friend.

John gave up the hopeless line of conversation and went to the fridge to try to find something for breakfast. As he suspected, there was no food in the fridge - no identifiable food anyway. There were several odd containers with dubious contents which he had long ago learned not to open. He puffed his cheeks and let out a long breath.

"I'm going to Speedy's to pick up a bagel and some coffee. Do you want anything?" he asked.

"Not hungry," answered his friend dismissively. John was aware of Sherlock's painfully thin frame and often wondered at his lack of appetite, but he had long given up trying to coerce him to eat.

"Suit yourself," he said and made for the door in search of breakfast.

When John got to the cafe, he realized that he'd forgotten his laptop. He always felt self conscious without it, especially when he was seated alone. He hadn't any fodder for his blog as far as new cases were concerned and he couldn't put details of his painfully lonely holiday on it for the world to see, so he contented himself with giving his full attention to his breakfast.

"Hi John," came a rich, resonant voice from nearby. John looked up, startled to hear an unfamiliar voice. Then he saw Emma. She had changed into more casual clothes, but still presented a well-polished image.

"Hi Emma," said John, his spirits lifting. "Would you like to join me?"

"Don't mind if I do," she replied. John smiled, enchanted.

She also had a bagel with cream cheese and coffee.

"So how are you getting on in your new flat?" asked John intrigued by her distinctly American mannerisms. It was hard to put to words but you could almost always tell an American by the way they carried themselves. There was a self confidence that could sometimes seem rude, even if not intended to be.

"Oh, it's going pretty well," she said. "I'm settling in."

She sipped her coffee and took a bite of bagel which made it impossible to talk further until she finished chewing it.

"I never realized how many words are different here. I now know that 'chips' means 'french fries' and that what you call 'crisps' are 'potato chips' to us." She smiled and John smiled to match.

"I'm sure you'll get used to it quickly," he offered. Just as he was about to ask another question, Sherlock came through the door and plopped down next to John.

"Just tea for me," he said as an aside to the waitress. He looked at Emma with his piercing blue eyes but said nothing. He pressed his lips together in what was almost a thin-lipped smile.

"Sherlock! Nice of you to join us," said Emma. "I've been reading John's blog about your cases. It's fascinating. Consulting detective...it sounds dangerous and exciting." She sipped her coffee and looked up at him through her long lashes, not yet realizing that her flirting was lost on the lanky detective.

"Yes," replied Sherlock, thinking this was a sufficient reply. John pursed his lips and knitted his brow. Unsure of how to cover for his friend's awkwardness.

"Yes, never a dull moment," added John. He could see Sherlock taking in details about her and only hoped that Sherlock would not present these deductions to her in a rude fashion. Sherlock remained silent and pensive. Emma shifted in her seat as if nervous or embarrassed. Just as John was about to speak, Sherlock's phone went off.

He pressed his phone to his ear, not bothering to excuse himself.

"Really? When? Where? We'll be there," he responded to the voice on the phone which John was sure was Lastrade's, the Chief Investigator at Scotland Yard. John seldom ever finished a meal when Sherlock was around and knew he would quickly lose the three pounds he had gained just by virtue of running around and having his meals interrupted.

"I'm so sorry," he apologized to Emma. "You never know when a case is going to break!" She nodded and smiled. "That's OK," she offered, clearly surprised by the abrupt interruption.

The two men dashed out of Speedy's, a familiar site to the neighbors; the tall lanky detective dashing about on long legs with his dark curly hair blowing wildly about his face, while his much shorter companion, John Watson, with his close cropped military haircut and bearing, jogged closely behind. Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson were, for all intents and purposes, the celebrities of Baker Street.


	3. Chapter 3

The London traffic was terrible at that time of morning, but eventually the two men made it to the New Scotland Yard on Broadway in Victoria. They were waved past the front desk as they were highly recognized figures here by now. Inspector Lestrade had used them in a number of difficult cases over the past year, and he had built up a wary trust of Sherlock and John. Even though he found Sherlock a nightmare to deal with personally, he could not deny the man's brilliance. Whenever the police were stumped by a case, they called in Sherlock Holmes. He had never yet failed to solve a mystery, a fact that both irritated and fascinated Lestrade. His own department seemed inept by comparison. And this fact was not lost on the detectives that worked for Lestrade. They hated Sherlock because he showed them up at every turn.

"Hello, Freak," greeted Sgt. Sally Donovan, who made no effort to hide her dislike of Sherlock. "Dr. Watson," she added more respectfully. If it wasn't for John's professionalism and kind demeanor, they probably would have received even less welcome.

"_Ms._ Donovan," replied Sherlock, ignoring her professional title and using the term 'Ms.' which he knew she hated. She made a face at his back and followed them into Lestrade's office, where Lestrade and Detective Andrews were both pouring over items on Lestrade's desk.

Detective Andrews stiffened when he saw Sherlock. He hated Sherlock but desperately wanted his approval, much the same way a child craves the approval of an abusive parent.

"Sherlock, John," said Lestrade by way of greeting. "Good of you to come."

Sherlock made a barely audible grunt gave him a questioning look.

"We've run aground on this one," began Lestrade. "We're hoping you could shed some light here."

"A killing in a public loo, and no witnesses. An American woman, Sarah Bowman. Recently expatriated from the United States. Married a Brit. We're working with US officials, but so far she's totally clean. No record, no history, no questionable involvements. Coroner says she was strangled to death, from the front, so she was facing her attacker. No weapons were found or seem to have been involved."

"CCTV footage?" asked Sherlock bluntly.

"Yes," said Lestrade. "but no matches on the facial recognition program. No other way to identify them. The angle of the camera shows the main entry into the bathrooms, but not the individual entrances to the men's or women's doors. But there are no windows, and no other way in or out of either restroom except for that main entrance."

"So one of the people on the footage is the killer," said John mater-of-factly.

Anderson rolled his eyes. "Is this what we brought the great consulting detectives in for?" he said bitterly. Sherlock regarded him with steel-cold eyes.

"Ah, Anderson. Sleeping on the couch again, I see," he said scathingly. It was enough to prevent Anderson from making any further comment on matter lest any more of his personal dirty laundry were exposed.

"If you don't mind," said Lestrade, impatient at having to break up the repartee. "Playing the tape back to early morning, the cleaning lady goes in at 8:30 AM, before the shopping centre opened. This was before anyone entered the restroom for the day. Then we fast forward to see a series of people go in and out after the shopping centre opening. The problem here is that there are small gaps in the footage. This is a mall, not a high security risk area like an airport. They don't have high quality coverage. We could have missed someone."

"But would the gap be long enough for them to enter, commit the crime and then exit? I thought gaps were usually 10 seconds or less," said Sherlock looking intently at the screen.

"That's usually true. In this case, the cameras clearly miss some time. We can't account for all of the people going in and out. There are some people who go in and we don't see exit. There are others exiting that we never see going in."

"I've started cross referencing all of the credit card purchases made that morning against anyone with a police record," said Anderson, clearly proud of himself.

"That's an extraordinary idea," said Sherlock. Anderson puffed up, pleased that Sherlock had complimented him. "Extraordinarily stupid," he finished cruelly, deflating Anderson, who left in an indignant huff to check on the progress of his cross referencing.

"Sherlock," hissed John. "Do you really need to do that?" Sherlock ignored John, who often acted as his portable conscience.

"Oh cut him a break, Sherlock," said Lestrade. "We have no other leads and no way to ID anyone. Anderson's idea isn't so bad."

"Do you really think someone who was going to commit premeditated murder would stop and buy a Slush Puppie with a charge card? Yes, It IS a bad idea," said Sherlock acerbically.

Lestrade sighed a big sigh as if assessing whether it had been worth it to call Sherlock. He knew the man could solve the case, but he found Sherlock so difficult to work with. John saw this and stepped in with his usual diplomacy.

"Did anyone step forward with any information? Who found her?"

"Ah, yes. The cleaning lady made a deposition as to the state of the restroom before the murder, and of course the woman who found her has given her statement. We have those on tape."

"Hmmm. We'll take the case," announced Sherlock. "We'll begin by reviewing all of the tapes, and then I'd like to talk to the person who found the body."

"She already gave her statement, Sherlock," said Lestrade. "It's on tape. I don't want to have to call her in again. She's a bloody mess anyway. Not very helpful. Offered no leads at all."

"You know I'd rather ask my own questions and come to my own conclusions,"answered Sherlock dryly. "If you want me to take the case, then call her back for questioning."

"OK," said Lestrade, relenting. He knew firsthand of Sherlock's obstinance.

"So all we have to go on is a tape of all the people who used the loo during that time, with no way to identify them, and the deposition of a person who has no information?" said John, pointedly.

"That's correct," confirmed Lestrade. "It's a sensitive case since it involves an American. I've got their bloody embassy on my tail asking for hourly updates. Forensics did analysis on some hair we found on the victim's body, but we don't have any match for it. As for fingerprinting, the bathroom was cleaned that morning, and not that many people used it before the murder. None of the prints we collected are a match on our criminal database. We've got no leads."

"I suggest we begin immediately then," said Sherlock snappily. Lestrade got up to lead them to a room reserved for viewing camera footage.

As they passed out of the door, Sergeant Donovan said, under her breath so that only Sherlock could hear her, "Let's see what you can do with this one, Freak." Sherlock did not look at her directly but smiled and said softly, "You should spend less time hanging around Anderson. His brand of 'stupid' is rubbing off on you."

John, who was bringing up the rear, clearly heard the exchange and shook his head. 'Now Sherlock," he said admonishingly, smiling at Donovan apologetically.

"I don't know how you stand him," she said to John, clearly furious with Sherlock.

It was promising to be a long day of sifting through information and reviewing video tapes. They would need total cooperation with all the departments, so John always had the job of defusing tension. "I don't know either," he answered.


	4. Chapter 4

It was late before the two men returned back to their flat at 221B Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson's light was off, signaling that she'd turned in for the evening, and Emma's lights were dark as well.

"I'm knackered. I'll see you in the morning," said John while yawning and he went straight to his room. He didn't bother to see what Sherlock was going to do. His friend had such unpredictable habits that John had given up trying to make sense of them.

As it turned out, Sherlock had business of his own to attend to. Once he was sure that John was settled in bed, he quietly left the flat and headed to the alley below, where Mrs. Hudson kept the trash bins for all the tenants. He began the unpleasant task of picking through the bags to determine which one belonged to Emma. He donned his latex gloves and braced himself against the odor of the opened bins. Once he determined which bags were hers, he began combing through the contents. He came across some bits of paper and pulled from his pocket the small silver magnifying glass/light that John had given him. He smiled at John's gift and thought how handy it actually was, but he would never tell him that.

Just as he stuffed the paper into his pocket he heard a car pull up to the street front. He stayed in the shadows and watched a blonde man of medium build step out of a cab. The man looked around nervously and then entered the front door, with a key. The cab pulled away and Sherlock edged to the front of the building once he was sure the man was inside. Suddenly, the light came on in 221C.

"Interesting," breathed Sherlock quietly to himself. After a few moments, Sherlock re-entered the building via the back entrance just in case anyone from inside was watching.

Once inside, Sherlock fired up his computer and began typing furiously, hot on the trail of some interesting piece of information. As with anything that piqued his interest and staved off the boredom that he hated, he was tireless in his study of it and never actually went to bed. He dozed on and off sitting upright at the kitchen table until John found him the next morning, still dressed and sitting in front of the laptop that had long since gone into sleep mode.

"Sherlock," said John into his friend's ear. There was no response.

"**_Sherlock_**," he said, a bit louder this time. His friend jerked awake and

took a few moments to orient himself to his surroundings.

"Morning, John," replied Sherlock as if there were nothing out of the ordinary. In fact this wasn't really out of the ordinary as far as Sherlock was concerned.

"Are you working on Lestrade's case?" asked John noncommittally as he searched the still-empty fridge.

"Lestrade's case?" asked Sherlock, as if he had no idea what John was talking about. "Ah, yes, Lestrade's case. Maybe."

John looked befuddled but shook it off.

"We need some groceries," he said said off-hand. "There's nothing for breakfast again."

"Might you pick up some wine and cheese when you go?" asked Sherlock, fully expecting John to do the shopping. He never volunteered to do this task and John knew that no amount of complaining would change that fact.

"Wine and cheese?" asked John. "What for?"

"I think it's time we get to know our new neighbor," he said lightly.

John stood there blinking. "I thought you didn't _do_ that sort of thing."

"I changed my mind. Wine and cheese please. My card's on the counter."

Rather than fight the unfathomable, John grabbed the debit card off the counter and headed out to the small grocery store just down the block.

"Be back in a few," said John to an unhearing Sherlock, who was already typing so furiously, John wondered how his keyboard was still in tact.

As he walked towards the outer door, Emma came out of her door at the same time, surprised by John's presence there.

"Oh, hello!" she said, clearly startled.

"Hello," said John smiling. She was quite pretty, but John thought she wore far too much make-up. It seemed to be more common among trendy metropolitan women.

"Sherlock and I were wondering if there would be a good time to get together? We'd like to get to know you better," he said, feeling slightly awkward, but always hopeful for an eventual date. Emma didn't respond right away, as if she were taken aback, but quickly recovered.

"Um", she answered. "I guess I'm free tonight. My place isn't really in a state fit to entertain, though. I could come to your place."

"Nonsense, "laughed John. We can help you if there's anything that needs doing. Let's say seven-ish? We'll bring the wine &amp; cheese, of course," offered John.

"I guess I'll be expecting you then," she said haltingly.

"Excellent," said John. They both made their way out of the door together, Emma hailing a cab and John continuing on foot towards the grocer's. He couldn't help but pick up on a certain hesitancy on her part, but that was probably because of Sherlock's churlish behavior thus far. He'd have to bludgeon his friend with rules of proper engagement which Sherlock would promptly ignore. He sighed a big sigh. It promised to be an interesting evening if nothing else.


	5. Chapter 5

They spent the better part of that day at the police station reviewing the CCTV footage over and over again. Sensible as always, John requested all of the information on the victim's background, hoping that he could find something of use. Although he didn't possess Sherlock's unusual deductive abilities, his common sense often turned up solid leads. Sherlock found his friend to be a very valuable asset on his cases, but his personality prevented him from saying so. But somehow, John knew, and didn't ask for anything more than that. He accepted Sherlock just as he was with all his faults, and that was a rarity that was not lost on Sherlock himself.

After a dismal second interview with the woman who had found the body, and no new leads, Sherlock sat with his hands steepled under his chin and his legs bobbing furiously in his habitual nervous tick.

"What have you got on the victim's personal records?" Sherlock asked John.

"Not much of interest. The victim, Sarah Bowman, was American, 35. She was recently re-married and located here to London with her new husband Sam Bowman. She is divorced from her first husband, Emmanuel Brown, no kids. Maiden name Sarah Jameson. She has no criminal record of any kind."

Sherlock sat bolt upright at this information and his eyes darted back and forth as if he were a computer processing information.

"What about the ex-husband?" asked Sherlock.

John riffled through the pile of folders. "Emmanuel Brown, 36. Currently living in Baltimore, Maryland, stateside. No record of international travel at this time. Checks out as still living at this current address. Unable to be reached for comment at listed phone number. He can't be a suspect if he's not in the country. This could be just a random act of violence. Maybe a robbery or attempted rape?"

"The victim's unopened purse was still on her body when found, so the motive clearly wasn't robbery" stated Sherlock in a fast clipped voice. "Her clothes were not torn or compromised," he said, looking at the crime scene photos. "So rape is unlikely. No. I feel this was more personal in nature."

"What about her new husband?" asked Sherlock. "Did they bring him in for questioning?"

"Yes. He also gave a deposition. He is distraught and shocked. He was not aware of any enemies his wife might have had nor of any shady doings. He himself has no criminal background at all. He comes from a well-to-do family, but they are all in good standing. Upright citizens."

"How dull," whispered Sherlock.

"Excuse me?" said John.

"Nothing. Please continue." Sherlock rolled his eyes and put his steepled fingers to his lips. Sometimes John worried for his friend's darker side. He wondered at times what would happen if Sherlock were on the side of the criminals and not on the side of the law. But there was some unexplainable quality of nobleness about Sherlock, despite his quirks, that prevented John from believing that could ever really be possible.

"I'd like to see the detail of the forensic results. Are they among your papers?" asked Sherlock offhandedly.

John flipped through the folders again, but was sure he hadn't seen detailed results. "Nope. Not here. I'll go see if I can get copies."

When John left the room in search of Lestrade, Sherlock went deep into thought. There was some nagging thought or feeling, just out of his grasp. Something about the CCTV footage created this feeling, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Yet.


	6. Chapter 6

At five minutes to seven later that evening John was giving the mirror a quick look to make sure he was presentable. Sherlock was waiting on the couch, unconcerned over his appearance. He had on slacks and a button down shirt and was wearing oxford shoes with no socks. John looked pointedly at his feet.

"What? I'm wearing shoes," he stated matter-of-factly.

John nodded patronizingly. "Good enough. Are you ready?"

"Ready as ever," he said grabbing a bottle of wine and motioning for John to grab the dish of cheese and crackers from the counter.

They made the short trip across the hallway and knocked on Emma's door. She answered quickly as she was expecting them.

"Sherlock, John! Please come in."

"Hello, Emma," said Sherlock with a smile. John recognized his friend's 'acting mode.' This was when he pretended at being dumb or innocent or some other thing, usually to advance a case. He never used it in normal social situations.

Emma was taken aback at his unusual warmth but seemed flustered. "I'm glad you're here. It's been a little lonely getting used to a new city...country for that matter. I haven't had time to make new friends yet." She led them through the sparsely furnished apartment to the kitchen table. "I haven't really done much on the decorating either," she said, looking embarrassed. She did however have music playing from somewhere they couldn't quite see. Sherlock noted the Vivaldi playing in the background.

"Ah. You have fine taste in music," he complimented her. John was unsure how to react to his friend's new-found sociability, but decided it was better than Sherlock behaving like his usual self.

"Yes," answered Emma smoothly. "I understand you play violin, Sherlock. From what I've heard, it sounds lovely."

Sherlock raised a glass of newly poured wine in a toast. "To good wine and good friends," he said. They all took a sip, but John was absolutely befuddled. He knew this new-and-improved Sherlock was a play for information which, for some reason, Sherlock hadn't shared with him.

Sherlock scanned the room and noted that there was no telly, which was unusual. He glanced quickly at her ring finger which had no ring on it but an unmistakable impression of a wedding ring on it. His mind whirred with possibilities, eliminating the least likely to come up with this top two assessments: she was having a fling with the blonde man he had seen earlier, or...

"Sherlock?" John was bringing him out of his mind palace.

"What?" he answered as if annoyed. Then he recovered.

"I'm sorry I was just lost in thought. So, what is it you do for a living?" he asked innocently by way of small talk, but he was hanging on the answer. Emma seemed to pause a little.

"Well, back in America I was a financial analyst. I've been retained for a job here, but I haven't started yet. Fortunately, they're giving me time to settle in." She sipped her wine. "I'm going through a divorce, you see." She smiled weakly and put her wine glass down.

"And you," she asked. "You both work on the cases I see from the blog, but John, it says you're a doctor. Don't you practice anymore?"

John shook his head. "Army doctor. Afghanistan. I've seen enough for one lifetime. But I get to use my knowledge on cases, so all is not lost." He smiled.

Emma flashed him a shy smile. It seemed that there was an awkwardness about the evening that could not quite be explained. The conversation seemed forced and it was obvious that no one was comfortable.

"May I use your loo?" Sherlock said suddenly.

"Um, I guess," said Emma. "It's not really that clean. You'd probably be better off waiting.."

"Nonsense," smiled Sherlock. "Be back in a sec."

Emma watched him with concern while John tried to relax through the odd gathering.

In the bathroom, Sherlock looked around, as was his habit. On the counter were loads of makeup bottles, hair brushes, women's perfume and deodorant. It was the hidden things that intrigued him. Sherlock was one of those nosy people who went through other people's medicine cabinets. The only saving grace was that he didn't visit other people very often to be presented that opportunity.

In the medicine cabinet among other things was men's shaving cream, and he noticed that the toilet seat was up. One thing was for sure, there had been a man in the flat. He flushed the toilet without really going and came back to the table. Emma was showing John her CD collection, which he found fascinating. She looked askance at Sherlock as if assessing him.

After another half hour of painfully stilted conversation, John made an excuse for them to leave. Emma seemed relieved.


	7. Chapter 7

When they got back to their flat Sherlock made a beeline to his laptop and began delving into the video given to him by Lestrade.

"Sherlock, what the hell was that?" said John, referring to Sherlock's little act at Emma's.

"I was being...polite. Do you disapprove?"

"Well, no, but it was...strange. For you, I mean. Oh never mind. Still, I think if she warms up over time I might ask for a date."

Sherlock smirked at him. "Oh yes, do. That would be most entertaining."

John shook his head again. As long as he had lived with the strange detective he still did not understand him most of the time.

"What are you looking at?" he asked, walking behind Sherlock and looking over his shoulder.

"Footage from the CCTV," he responded.

"You've looked at that a hundred times," said John, bringing him a glass. "What do you expect to see that you haven't seen before."

"As ever, John, you see but you don't observe," he leaned back in his chair, his hands forming a temple under his chin.

"How many people go into the bathrooms?" he asked John. He reversed the video and put it on high speed to create a time-lapse view of the activity. "Let's count, shall we?"

John watched the video and counted. "Ten go in, " he said concentrating hard. "And...ten come out," he said.

"Yes, John. But are they the _same_ ones?"

"I'm sorry, I don't follow," said John confused.

"Seven men and three women enter. Six men and four women exit. Remember, there is only one exit and no windows."

"Well, Lestrade said that there might be gaps in the footage, remember?"

"Ah yes. Lestrade. I think it's time we phone and let him know we've solved the case," said Sherlock smugly.

"We have? Jesus Sherlock, you are irritating. Do you mind sharing what's going on in that head of yours with rest of us mere mortals?"

At this open invitation, Sherlock launched into one of his familiar speeches:

"I became suspicious in Speedy's when I noticed she was wearing a wig, but that in itself is not a crime. The fact that she hadn't unpacked her belongings suggested that she didn't plan on staying very long and that made me wonder about her. Then there was the late night visitor, the blonde man who went in but never came out of her apartment one night. I found that odd so I went through her trash, and lo and behold, I found many interesting things. An airplane ticket for Emma Brown to the U.K. and several paper correspondences to an Emmanuel Brown."

"What blonde man? You went through her trash?!" said John incredulously. "She hadn't been implicated in any crime yet. What the hell were you doing?"

"I was bored. And curious," said Sherlock as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. "Many things happen when you're sleeping," said Sherlock rather mysteriously. John did a double take and noted his friend's mischievous expression.

"Then at the get together tonight in her bathroom, rather _his_ bathroom, I found many interesting things," continued the consulting detective.

"Wait. What? **_His_** bathroom? What the hell are you talking about?" yelled John, confused and unable to follow his friend's line of reasoning.

"Yes, HIS. Emma Brown is really a man. Emmanuel Brown. Sarah Bowman's ex-husband to be exact. The name matches the police report, I believe. A divorced transvestite/transgender from Baltimore Maryland with a chip on his shoulder against his ex-wife."

John just sat there speechless. He felt befuddled but also slightly aghast that he had been so taken in by Emma's appearance.

"How do you know this Sherlock? The police had checked him out. They said he wasn't traveling internationally."

"No, but _Emma_ Brown is. You see Emmanuel managed to obtain a passport under the name Emma and leave the country. He/She is currently residing at 221C Baker Street," finished Sherlock, obviously pleased with himself.

"How can you be sure it's the same person? Brown is a common surname. How do you know all this information that Scotland Yard doesn't?" asked John.

"Facebook," said Sherlock simply, punctuating the word with relish.

"Facebook?" asked John incredulously.

"Yes. Emmanuel was very proud of the fact of his coming out, and what do people do when they're proud of something? Post it on Facebook. Unfortunately, his wife was not thrilled at his lifestyle choice and divorced him. His/Her site contains before and after photos of him dressed as both genders." Sherlock turned the laptop to face John, and there, smiling from the Facebook page was a 'selfie' of Emma. Directly next to that was a photo of a very handsome, if not beautiful, blonde man.

"This is...I can't..." stammered John.

"He does make for a very attractive woman," said Sherlock thoughtfully.

John looked at his friend's expression, and saw that he was simply stating a fact with no intention of being snarky.

"Yes. I guess so," said John uncomfortably.

But Sherlock's attitude quickly returned. "Do you still want that date?" and he laughed.

"That is not funny," said John angrily. "What actual evidence do you have for the police besides a Facebook page?"

"Hair that, if I am correct, matches the one found at the scene," stated Sherlock matter-of-factly.

"In her bathroom there was a brush. I took the liberty of collecting a sample that we'll give to the lab. The data from the crime scene showed that the hair was most likely Asian, but there were no Asians on the CCTV footage. There was a woman with a wig. Emma's wig is likely made of human Asian hair."

"That's...incredible!" gasped John.

"I also found brown contact lenses, which would certainly hide Emmanuel's blue eyes... and what woman leaves the toilet seat UP?" He smiled his annoying little superior smile as John sat there just gaping like a fish on dry land.

"I shall call Lestrade and have her...um, him taken in for questioning while the lab verifies this hair," he finished lazily.

"What about the CCTV footage?" asked John.

"Ah," said Sherlock nodding his head. "You see a woman with dark hair going in right after Sarah goes into the bathroom, with a backpack. After a few minutes, you see a blonde MAN coming out, with the _same_ backpack. If you back up the footage, he is never seen going in. Emma made a quick change in the bathroom to become Emmanuel. There is no gap in the footage."

Sherlock texted Lestrade with his deductions while John sat stunned. With this knowledge, he went over every encounter with Emma in his head to see if there were any clues at all that he overlooked. Only the heavy make-up, but these days that wasn't out of the ordinary! His earlier self-confidence in his own ability to judge people was completely eroded, and he had the angry feeling of being played. Sherlock, however, seemed to bask in the pleasure of solving the mystery, and this only served to reinforce his self-confidence.


	8. Chapter 8

The hair that Sherlock had collected from the brush proved to be a match to the hair collected at the crime scene. When Lestrade showed up with Donovan and a squad of officers to take Emmanuel Brown into custody, John still felt a feeling of minor betrayal. He and Sherlock stood in the hallway as they removed the man from his apartment and brought him in for questioning as a prime suspect. It was a shock to see a blonde man in cuffs and women's clothing, although he had no make-up on. Without the wig and contacts, he looked like a completely different person. They could now match him to the CCTV footage as both a man and a woman.

"Bloody good work," congratulated Lestrade. "Sometimes I don't know what we'd do without you!"

This comment had the effect of finger nails on a chalk board to Sergeant Donovan, who viewed every success of Sherlock's as a failure of her own. She merely pursed her lips together, and looked away as she walked passed Sherlock. He had the grace, this time, to remain silent.

Poor Mrs. Hudson was in a complete tizzy when she learned that she had let the flat to a killer, and that Emma was really a man.

"Oh, my!" she said, clutching her robe together in dismay. "You just never know about people these days! She seemed so nice, too! Oh, he. It's all so confusing! I'm going to have a tea...with brandy for the nerves."

Sherlock put his hand on her shoulder in a rare gesture of comfort. There were very few people that he actually showed concern for, and she was one of them.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson. Nothing gets past John and I," he said.

She loved it when he was kind, because more often than not he was surly and distant. But it was moments like these that reminded her that she was special to him.

"Thank you, dear," she said, patting his hand.

John and Sherlock returned to their own flat and took their regular positions. John sat at his computer and began a new blog entry, while Sherlock paced about the room in search of his next distraction. He looked over John's shoulder as he typed the blog title: A Case of Identity.

"How tedious," he criticized. John rolled his eyes skyward and sighed.

"What would you call it then?" he challenged.

"She's The Man?" quipped Sherlock. They both began laughing.

"Good, that's actually very good," said John.

As the evening deepened, they both became absorbed in their own diversions, barely even speaking again before bedtime. And so, John Watson, displaced lonely army veteran, and Sherlock Holmes, lonely intellectual genius, continued life as flatmates, both enriched by their unlikely friendship.


End file.
